


to be the king and queen of summer

by sleepymoon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, No Spoilers, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepymoon/pseuds/sleepymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's offered the crown of a kingdom whose boundaries he cannot even begin to imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be the king and queen of summer

She's no lady, she keeps repeating, twisting her face indignantly at the title as if addressing her as such was a cleverly disguised insult.

As he murmurs a soft 'milady' into her neck, kissing the skin just below her ear, he barely has the time to blink - she grasps the short hair at the base of his skull and jerks his head backwards so hard he feels the prickle of pain-induced tears well up in his eyes.

'I told you _not_ to call me that.'

 

She's fierce, untamable.

A she-wolf bred in the North, a creature of snow and fire.

She sits in the middle of the bed, unconcerned by her nudity, and looks up at him sharply when she feels his gaze touch her and then linger, with purpose. She raises her eyebrows and he laughs - fighting a blush even after all these years -, and draws her closer.

 

She's a highborn, it's in her blood -

the grace of her mother more subdued in her than in her sister, but still there nonetheless, for a trained eye to catch.

She's a killer. There is darkness in her heart, but there is also gentleness, and hunger, and regret. He wants to embrace every corner of her, even the sharpest, even if there's the serious chance he will cut himself in the process and bleed, profusely and in secret, so as not to upset her.

 

Gendry has no true desire to be King.

His dad could have been a king as well as a fisherman, for all he cares; though sometimes he wishes he could have met him, and found out for himself whether he was or not a good man. Still, he's offered the crown of a kingdom whose boundaries he cannot even begin to imagine.

It feels enormous, and profoundly scary. He doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Except offering it to Arya in return.

 

Considering all the pretenders to the Iron Throne, that a humble smith should be the one finally claiming it sounds ridiculous.

It sounds like a bad tavern joke. He doesn't need a crown, nor a throne, nor a kingdom.

He needs Arya, though, and needs her at peace with all the ghosts and the demons from her past.

 

'We're making a statement, we're resettling the rules, that's what we're here for.'

She gets up on her knees on the bed and places his new helm on his head, staring up at him while she speaks,

'I'm no queen and you're no king. And that's exactly why we're going to be so good at this whole ruling business.'

She smiles that little devious smile, as if she had it all figured out in her clever little head.

 

She wears no silk gowns nor jewels.

She spends more time in the armory or in the woods with Nymeria than brushing her hair or minding her looks.

She sits on a throne of her own, beside him, wearing her silver crown and a pair of trousers, chin tilted high, defiant and proud and as unladylike as she can get – they held strong through the storm and the winter, and now he finally gets to see her eyes brightening with the promise of a new summer.

 


End file.
